MATTEO HELPED HER out onto the dock near the vaporetto stop. She thanked him in her rudimentary Italian and he blushed before jumping back in the boat, “Ci vediamo.”
Stella watched Matteo do an expert turn in the canal and considered her options. She could go to the telegraph office, Daniel’s flat, or the hotel. There was no point in going to the hotel or the flat if her father hadn’t gotten the message. There’d be no money to get. So the telegraph office it was. She knew the location, a little shop off Campo di San Silvestro. She’d been there with Abel several times to send telegrams to her parents. Nicky had been irritated enough with the frequent trips not to go with them. He just didn’t understand telegrams flying back and forth over the Atlantic. The memory made her sad, but even with those little snits, they’d been happy. She hadn’t known how lucky she was. She hadn’t appreciated the money or the walking without pain or even the beauty of the city. There had been so much beauty then.
She turned around to orient herself and saw Matteo still there, idling across the canal and watching her. She waved and she could’ve sworn he blushed again before motoring off. Maybe Sofia had told him to keep an eye on her. It wouldn’t be surprising. People seemed to think her fragile. But it didn’t matter what Matteo thought or Sofia. She wasn’t close to fragile. Maybe once but not anymore.
Now she saw the buildings and their beauty rising around her, not even her umbrella and the incessant rain blinded her to it. She smiled and headed off down the street and made it to the square in minutes. It was as she remembered, except flooded, of course. The water was a foot deep and people were plowing through it and chatting like it was normal.
Stella followed suit and made her way across the square past the ancient white marble well in the middle, smiling at a group of small boys who’d taken up residence and made it a kind of fort with umbrellas and tarps. They peeked out at her warily with their fingers turned into pistols looking for pirates or whatever boys look for before they notice girls. She waved and they shushed her. It was all a big secret.
A lady with a big bosom stood in a doorway, smoking a cigarette and wearing uglier boots than Stella, laughing and shaking her head. She aimed a pistol finger and the boys shrieked, retreating into their hideout. Fun in the middle of a mess. Stella smiled all the way over to the telegraph office and was glad she’d been there before. The sign wasn’t big and making it grey on a grey building wasn’t the best idea. If Abel hadn’t known the way, it would’ve taken forever to find “Poste e Telegrafo” on the big square. It was like they didn’t want you to find it and the man in the doorway wasn’t happy that she did.
He was balanced on some sandbags and holding a hose that spewed water out into the square. He grimaced with a cigarette clamped in his teeth, looking her over and not missing a thing. Her fur was of particular interest. It had to go. He wasn’t likely to forget it or her.
“Buongiorno, signore,” she said, hoping that he didn’t care about her origins. Stella was in no mood to convince him that she wasn’t a Jew or that it shouldn’t matter if she was..
He eyed her for a few more seconds and then nodded but didn’t move aside. She sighed and got out her dictionary, remembering another thing she hadn’t appreciated before, Abel and his fluent Italian.
It took a second, but she got out, “Telegramma per me.”
The man gave her a worn-out tourists-make-me-tired look and stepped aside, yelling behind him. “Elena! Telegramma per turista.”
“Turista? Che turista?” yelled a woman.
“Turista! Turista!” he yelled back and waved Stella in impatiently.
She climbed up over the sandbags and stepped into the little office that was the same as before, except there was a wooden table in the middle, six inches deep in water. It had some sort of motor on it, making a terrible racket and belching smoke. It seemed to be sucking the water off the floor with several hoses but wasn’t making fast work of it.
There were sandbags around the perimeter to protect the little post office boxes and a young woman leaned on the counter in the back in the alcove. Stella didn’t recognize her. Before the office had been run by a mother and grandmother team, who fought constantly, and Stella was relieved they weren’t there to either recognize her or yell.
This new woman was about Stella’s age with beautiful long hair flowing down her shoulders in silky coils. Behind her, equipment was stacked to the ceiling and Stella wondered if they were operating. The girl waved at her shyly and Stella splashed over with her dictionary ready.
“Buongiorno,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the racket. “Telegramma?”
“Sì, sì. What is your name?” she asked.
Stella leaned on the counter. “You speak English. I’m so happy.”
The girl laughed. “I speak a little English.”
“You speak a lot of English, but let’s not quibble.”
“What is quibble? I do not know this word.”
“It’s means argue, but that doesn’t matter,” said Stella, taking a second to appreciate her good fortune. “My name is Miss Myna. Do you have a telegram from the States for me?”
“Ah, yes, Miss Myna,” she said happily. “I have it.”
Stella could’ve cried.
“But you are not happy?”
“I’m very happy. Can I have it?” she asked, itching to read her father’s words.
“Have you the passport?” the girl asked.
Stella handed over her passport and it was duly glanced at. She handed the passport back and gave her a slender envelope that Stella instinctively pressed to her chest.
“Do you want send a telegram?” asked Elena.
“Yes. I’m sure I do.”
The motor behind her sputtered and gave up, causing the man to curse and toss down his hose.
“Grazie Dio,” exclaimed Elena, getting her a hateful look in response. “My father, he is mad at the rain, but the rain it comes. No one can stop it.”
“It will stop eventually,” said Stella.
Elena nodded solemnly. “Domani. Tomorrow it will stop.”
“I’m sure.” Stella looked at the envelope and smiled. Patrick and her father had understood. The message was addressed to Miss Myna and was sent by Patrick. No mention of the Bled name thankfully. She slit open the envelope with her fingernail and held her breath as she unfolded the thin paper.
Dear beloved Miss Myna,
Funds sent. Pocket money. Josiah well. Mother frantic.
Return home immediately. Proceed to Genoa. The Italian Line. Tickets waiting.
Love, Father
Stella read the telegram three times and it made her heart hurt. The money was good, but that was the best of it.
“You send reply?” asked Elena.
She read it a fourth time and thought for a moment. “No. Not right now. You are open all day?”
“We close at noon to 1430 for riposo.”
“Oh, right. I forgot.” Stella looked at her father’s words. She had to reply, but what could she say? Uncle Josiah was okay. Thank goodness. But Abel wasn’t. Father would’ve said so if he was. And Mother. She’d completely forgotten about keeping it from her. If Patrick went to the house instead of the brewery, Mother would’ve read the telegram and known something was terribly wrong and, perhaps even worse, she realized Father knew and didn’t tell her. To top it off, they couldn’t proceed to Genoa or anywhere else. It was a struggle to get Nicky to the bathroom just then.
“You have message now?” asked Elena.
“No. I’ll be back.”
Elena nodded and Stella tucked the telegram in her handbag to join the growing collection. She splashed to the door, past the motor and Elena’s father who was cursing and trying to start it by pulling a cord so hard Stella was surprised it didn’t snap off, but then she turned around, splashing back.
“Elena?”
The girl returned to the window. “You send now?”
“No. I need some new clothes. Can you recommend a shop?”
“For you?”
“And my husband. Nothing fancy.”
“To wear now?”
Stella nodded emphatically. “Off the rack.”
Elena looked confused, but gave her directions to a shop, Venezia Augusto, that was close by. She even drew her a map.
“I almost forgot,” said Stella. “Have you received any telegrams for a couple named Sorkine?”
“Sor…”
“Sorkine.” Stella wrote it on the map and Elena shook her head.
“Can you describe?” she asked.
Stella couldn’t and she could only suppose they were French. “They might be speaking French or have a French accent.”
“No French in many weeks.”
Stella sighed. But at least there was the money. That was a good thing. She must remember that and not the rest.
“Thank you.” She splashed back out as the motor growled to life and spewed out a cloud of noxious smoke. Elena started yelling and Stella climbed over the sandbags into the square. The boys in the fortress were still on the well, but beyond them were two polizia huddled in a doorway next to the tall tower.
Stella caught her breath and turned the other way, doing her best to casually walk away. Her umbrella helped. It was a perfect shield. Everybody and their mother had a black umbrella and she made it out of the square without being noticed. There was no reason to think they were looking for her, but no reason not to either. Suddenly, Venice felt full of enemies, as Germany had, and she hurried away toward Daniel’s flat, once again longing for the safety of home, but home as it had been. Now Father would be furious and Mother hysterical. Still, she preferred that to New York and the chilly Lawrences. If Nicky’s parents knew anything had happened, they probably just had a glass of wine and called a lawyer to look into it, if that. Maybe that was ungenerous, but Stella wasn’t feeling very generous. Nicky didn’t care to send them a telegram reassuring them. She wasn’t sure if that said more about him or them. Either way it wasn’t a good sign and she made up her mind right there on the streets of Venice that she wasn’t living in New York with those people. Her people would work to save Abel. His? Who knows.
Stella tried Daniel’s flat first in hopes she wouldn’t have to bother with the hotel, but he wasn’t home. Butlers were on duty twenty-four hours a day when they had guests and he was probably overseeing their breakfast, arranging tours, or seeing to a million other details that a demanding guest might require. Daniel had said that she and Nicky were so self-sufficient it was like being on holiday. She got the feeling that other guests weren’t quite so relaxing.
Going to the hotel wasn’t ideal, not in her current state, and with Peiper out looking for them. It wouldn’t be hard to find out where they’d stayed before and she expected him to show up and bang on the desk before the day was out. Daniel would keep quiet about seeing her, but there was no reason anyone else should.
She’d have go to the service entrance again and tip someone to find Daniel. It wasn’t ideal, but nothing was anymore.
Even less ideal was her arrival. The hotel was abuzz with delivery people bringing everything from fish to flowers. She could scarcely squeeze through the door much less get anyone’s attention. Stella had never been down there during delivery time. Night was fairly quiet, especially after dinner. Morning was a madhouse. People jostled her out of the way, pushing and yelling in Italian and sometimes French. Everyone was tremendously busy. Water covered the floors, dripping off coats, boxes, and umbrellas. Maids were trying to mop. Cooks were inspecting produce. Papers were passed back and forth with much yelling. Waiters pushed through, carrying enormous trays covered in silver cloches. One slipped and went down. Dishes flew everywhere. Hollandaise hit the wall and a chef hit the waiter.
Stella squeezed by and went for the stairs, not to go up but to hide out of the way until it calmed down. It didn’t. It just kept going. She was about to give up when a white chef’s jacket appeared in front of her. She stepped back and bumped into the wall. A man crouched and yelled in her face, wagging a finger, and demanding something, but she had no idea what.
“I’m looking for Daniel Burgess!” she finally yelled back.
He stopped mid-yell and stepped back to get a look at her. “Madam Lawrence?”
Stella didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. “Yes,” she said hesitantly.
“It is me, Serge, the sous chef.” He patted his chest. “I taught you the meringue.”
“Yes, of course, Serge. I just…”
He took her hand and kissed it the way only a Frenchman would, with style and aplomb. “I frightened you. I made a mistake. We do not allow people from the street to wander in.” He looked at her ridiculous boots, making it plain that he meant riffraff, not people.
“I know and I’m sorry to intrude, but I’m looking for Daniel Burgess. Have you seen him today?”
“I have not. But what are you doing here? Do you not go to Greece?” he asked.
Greece. Stella went blank for a second and then she remembered that they hadn’t told everyone about the change in plans. “We did and now we’re back.”
“Your fur.” He waved at the matted black lamb. “You are not wearing a hat. What terrible thing has happened to you?”
Trust Serge to take a lack of hat as a sign of tragedy, but he wasn’t wrong.
She smiled at him, tilting her chin down and batting her eyelashes. “It got wet. Everything’s wet.”
He threw up his hands. “This rain. It never stops.”
“Domani,” someone yelled and Serge made a rude gesture in return. “Here let me escort you upstairs. Mr. Lawrence? He is in your old suite?”
She pulled away. “No. Please. I just need to see Daniel.”
He bent low over her. “You are here for Daniel? You have the…passion for the butler?”
“For God’s sake, no. Can you send for him? He’s done me a favor and I need to see him.”
“But you come in the servant’s hall?”
“Yes.”
Serge thought for a second and then snapped his fingers. A busboy rushed up and he said, “Bring me Daniel Burgess.”
The boy looked back and forth between the chef and Stella.
“Burgess now!” yelled Serge and the boy ran away.
“You’re terrifying,” said Stella.
He bowed. “Thank you. I run a good kitchen.”
Stella didn’t disagree, but she had no idea how beautifully prepared dishes came out of that insanity.
“I must return. Wait here.” Serge ran off dodging crates of tomatoes and a dolly stacked with boxes of wine. No one else seemed to notice her. Maybe they didn’t have a moment to notice. She could hear Serge yelling somewhere in the depths of the kitchen while she waited, thinking about the telegram. No reply came to her, except maybe a lie. She could say they were going to Genoa. It would soothe Mother but not for long and then it would be worse.
She was about to get it out again when Daniel ran down the stairs in a panic. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. I’ve had a telegram from my father. Do you have the money?”
Daniel looked over his shoulder and led her into the depths of the servants’ domain, taking her into a small room stacked with linens where two elderly ladies were ironing napkins. He asked them to leave and they did but not without giving scornful looks. They would probably tell everyone Daniel had one of those women in the linen closet, but Stella couldn’t have cared less.
“The carabinieri are looking for you. Did you know that?” he demanded.
Stella went cold. “When?”
“This morning.”
“Are they gone?”
“Yes. I nearly fainted when I heard them ask for you and Nicky.”
“What did they say?”
Daniel paced in front of her. “They wanted to know if you were staying here.”
Stella sighed in relief. “That’s all?”
“No, that’s not all. They said you stole a water taxi, Nicky beat up the captain, and threw him overboard. That can’t be true.”
“Well…”
“Mrs. Lawrence. They want to arrest you. They say you’re wanted in Germany for theft.”
“That is not true. Did they happen to mention that we stole that taxi because a Nazi was shooting at us?” she asked.
“That was about you?” he asked astonished.
“I thought they’d skip over that.”
“Why was he shooting at you?”
“It’s a long story,” she said. “Do you have the money?”
He stopped pacing and stood in front of her, fists on his hips. “I don’t know if I should give it to you.”
“We’re not criminals, not exactly. We couldn’t just let him shoot us, could we?” asked Stella.
“But if someone’s trying to hurt you, wouldn’t you be safer in custody? The carabinieri can protect you and call the American embassy for you.”
“Are you kidding? No. We’d be fish in a barrel.”
“Mrs. Lawrence.”
“Stella.”
“Stella, you stole that man’s taxi. That is a crime.”
She took Daniel’s hands and used every ounce of charm she possessed. “But we didn’t destroy that boat. That was the SS officer and he did it on purpose. He shot Nicky and, if you don’t help us, he’ll finish the job.”
Daniel blanched. “He shot Nicky. That wasn’t in the paper. When? How? Is he…”
“He’s okay. It’s a flesh wound. Hurts like hell, but it’s healing fast.”
“He’s seen a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Why is this SS trying to kill you?” asked Daniel.
“Like I said, it’s a long story and it won’t help you to know it. Please give me the money. I promise I’ll explain everything someday.”
Daniel squeezed her hands and, for a moment, she thought he’d refuse, but he let go and reached in his breast pocket withdrawing his wallet. “Your father sent 5000 dollars.”
She smiled and clutched her handbag to her chest. “I knew he’d come through.”
“That’s more than a Studebaker. You could buy a house for that.”
“Yes. Do you have it?”
Daniel did have it. Some of it. The bank didn’t have 5000 dollars in dollars. They only had 1500 and he got that in hundred-dollar bills. He got another thousand in lira, thinking they would need it. Stella took the wad of bills and stuffed it in her handbag, making it fat and lumpy.
“Thank you so much, Daniel. You don’t know how much you’ve done for us.”
“What about the rest?” he asked uneasily.
“We’ll worry about that later. Tell me about the carabinieri.”
There wasn’t a heck of a lot to tell. An officer, not Bartali, had come asking about them, but he wasn’t, to Daniel’s mind, terribly interested in the case or maybe he didn’t believe that they would be stupid enough to come back to the same hotel. He did insist that Stella and Nicky were crazed criminals and had to be found immediately. To that, the staff had laughed in his face. The hotel manager argued and said they could not possibly be the people he was looking for. When the carabinieri claimed that he knew for a fact that they were, the manager informed him that Stella was heir to the Bled brewing fortune and Nicky was heir to United Shipping and Steel. The Lawrences were on their honeymoon. They’d hardly be going around stealing boats. That set the officer back on his heels. Apparently, he hadn’t been informed of exactly who he was searching for.
The manager saw Daniel lurking around and he was brought over for questioning. Daniel said he hadn’t seen them since they left earlier in the month. The carabinieri wanted to know where they went and before Daniel could answer, the manager had promptly said, “Greece.”
“I guess no one told him about our change in plans,” said Stella. “But I’m sure Abel told the concierge about Vienna. He changed our tickets. And Nicky told our waiter the night before we left and our porter. Lots of people knew. The maids. Practically everyone, except the kitchen staff. No one contradicted him?”
“They wouldn’t, not if they value their jobs. Also, you and Nicky were well-liked. The carabinieri are not.”
“But they might tell the Sorkines?”
“Unless Signore Blanca was standing there, yes, they would,” said Daniel. “I, also, confirmed your trip to Greece. I said you were touring several islands before returning to the States.”
Stella looked down. That had been the plan. The plan she changed.
“What is it, Stella?” asked Daniel.
“I wish we’d gone to Greece.”
He reached out to touch her shoulder but couldn’t quite make himself do it. His training was too ingrained. She could’ve used a hug, a fatherly shoulder.
“Stella?”
She smiled. That was something. He used her name without hesitating. “I’m fine.”
“Vienna was very bad then?”
“It was the beginning of very bad.”
“What did your father say?”
“He says to come home.”
Daniel breathed a sigh of relief. “Quite right. Go home and forget.”
“Did you ask around about the Sorkines?”
He did, but no one had seen them or been asking about them.
“Thanks for trying,” she said.
“My pleasure.”
Someone knocked on the door and Daniel answered in Italian. “The ladies need to finish their work.”
She nodded. What to do now? She had two days to find the Sorkines. Then Nicky would be able to leave and she couldn’t possibly refuse to go. But maybe it didn’t matter, if she didn’t find them in two days, she wasn’t going to find them. And if she couldn’t find them, maybe they wouldn’t be able to find out where Abel had really gone. There was some comfort in that.
“Daniel, how many hotels are there like the Bella Luna?” she asked.
He put his nose in the air and was every inch the snotty butler. “None.”
“Oh, come on. If we hadn’t come here, where might we go? Lots of money to spend.”
“You mean where might this couple be looking for you?”
“That’s it exactly.”
It hurt his pride to admit there were several hotels that might, just might, come close to the Bella Luna standard. She had him write the names on her father’s telegram, five in all. “Alright. Which ones are below that?”
He drew back. “Below the Bella Luna and those five? You would never go to a hotel below the luxury class.” He paused. “Where are you now? You never said.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She couldn’t help but smile. The Vittoria wasn’t within spitting distance of the Bella Luna and it was perfectly fine, lovely in its own way. “Remember the Sorkines might not know which hotels are the standard.”
His nose went farther up. “What kind of people are they?”
“Abel’s people, his family.”
He came crashing back to reality. “I forgot.”
“I know you did and they are fine people. They live in the Marais district in Paris. A nice building, but not…”
“The Bella Luna sort.”
She hated to admit that. It was so snotty. “That’s it. Where would they go?”
He gave her five hotels that might suit. Not surprisingly, the Vittoria wasn’t on the list.
The ladies knocked again, now complaining loudly. Daniel ushered her out and took her speedily through a back way and let her out a small side door that was so ill-used it had rust on the hinges and complained something fierce when he forced it open.
“Thank you, Daniel.”
“About the money,” he said.
“Don’t worry. It’s fine.”
“It’s not my money. I wouldn’t presume to leave it in my account.”
“I’ll be back and if I’m not, consider it a tip.”
He went stiff with indignation. “I do not need a tip to help you. It is my honor to serve.”
“You’re a hard man to please, Daniel Burgess.” She kissed his stony cheek. “I like that about you.”
“If Abel’s people come, what should I do? How do I contact you?”
“Do me a favor, if they come and you talk to them, give them a message for me,” said Stella.
“Of course. What is the message?”
She thought about it for a moment and then the image appeared in her mind. Gutenberg’s portrait of his beloved wife. “Tell them that Stella Bled Lawrence said Nissa is safe and not to look for her anymore.”
“Nissa is a person?”
“Yes. Just tell them. They’ll understand.”
“What if they ask about Abel?” he asked.
“I don’t know if they will ask,” she said.
“If they are Abel’s family and he is connected to this Nissa person, they will ask, and I believe you most likely owe them an explanation,” said the butler who served people and knew people.
“You’re right and they might keep looking if I don’t say.”
“Is he somewhere they can’t go?”
“He’s somewhere I’m trying to keep them from going,” said Stella. For some reason, this information was hard to give up, harder than saying Nicky had been shot, harder than being hungry, harder than begging their butler for help and money, but she had to say it. They had to know.
“Abel was sent to Dachau,” she whispered.
“What’s Dachau?” he asked, puzzled.
“It’s a kind of prison. They sent the Jews in Vienna there.” She could see Abel being pulled back into the boxcar. Uncle Josiah hadn’t found him. He wasn’t safe and it was her fault.
“This information will scare them?”
“It will hurt them. It hurts me.”
He nodded. “But he may have already been released. They can’t keep those people locked up forever.”
“Says who?” asked Stella. “The United States? England? No one has done anything about the Kristallnacht.”
“It’s impractical and what purpose does it serve? None. Mark my words, Abel has been released and is looking for you right now.”
He really believed that. Probably the whole world thought it, too, but they didn’t really care as long as there wasn’t another war.
“There’s going to be another war,” she said softly to herself more than Daniel.
“No. It won’t happen. Chamberlain has avoided it. Hitler has what he wanted. He signed the agreement. Peace in our time.” Daniel smiled. He believed in Chamberlain and she let him.
“Thank you again.”
“Where are you going? To check the hotels?”
Stella opened her umbrella and stepped out into a deep puddle. “To telegram my father.”
“To tell him you’re coming home?”
“Yes.” If she was going to lie to her father, she might as well lie to Daniel.